


A...baby?

by TheLastComment



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:59:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastComment/pseuds/TheLastComment
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is called out to a crime scene. Triple murder, locked room. Lestrade is baffled. The legal people find a very interesting document however, concerning Sherlock, and the one member of the family that wasn't killed...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Another Crime Scene

Lestrade phoned John as we were in the taxi to the latest crime scene. Lestrade never phoned John. What was it that could cause Lestrade to phone John?

John hung up after a few “mmmhmmms” and “yes, yes”s and the like. It was rather dull, and John’s mobile was too quiet to be able to listen in on their conversation. John had become much more protective of keeping his phone volume down since he met Mary, making it practically impossible to eavesdrop on them, and they rarely emailed since John knew I could crack any of his passwords in a matter of minutes.

“So, what did Lestrade want to tell you?” I inquired. John seemed to enjoy me not knowing though. He got a silly grin on his face and said “aha, no. He specifically told me not to tell you. You’re to go straight to the victims, tell them what you can, and then clear out.”

“So, there’s something different about this case,” I said, trying to tease every detail I could out of John. Something involved, but that they won’t let me investigate.” His eyes gave him away, I wasn’t supposed to be deducing what it was Lestrade wanted to keep me away from, but, really, when he calls John to tell me to keep away from whatever it is, I’m going to have to figure it out and get involved. He really should know by now.

I ran through what I knew. Triple murder in an apartment. Three gunshot wounds to the head, only one casing found. No signs of resistance. All the victims were related. All still had ID on them, no criminal records or history of family violence, nobody even had a weapon.

“There’s a child who survived,” I concluded. The apartment was in a posh neighborhood, so probably pretty big. Each child with their own room, most likely, and not a cramped one either. “No, not just a child, a baby.” They were supposed to sleep silently, and able to sleep through most anything. If the murderer didn’t know there was a baby, he could easily have bypassed it. But why would Lestrade be so keen to keep me away from it? Yes, there had been that one time, but that was Moriarty’s doing, making her think I was a dangerous lunatic. And I can’t be blamed for the results of his actions. John’s face confirmed my deductions, and we arrived at the scene. I didn’t need to see a baby. There wasn’t any way of interrogating them. Just another orphan who would need a home. Probably get sent off to live with a family member.

“Good, you’re here,” Lestrade said, impatient as ever, walking up to greet us. “Right in there. Left at the kitchen, second door on the right. All three are in there. We need to know how someone could have got in and killed them without showing up on the cameras. They’ve got a security system. Camera on the door and alarms on all the windows. Nothing too valuable, besides the TV and a bit of jewelry, but the family had money.”

“Living in this neighborhood?” I jokingly asked. “Of course they’ve got money. Besides what’s in records that you can access here, they probably have multiple offshore accounts, and another three houses under fake names.” John and I walked in past Lestrade. I followed his directions in. Three bodies on the floor, just like had been described to me. Bullet lodged in the wall, passed through all three heads. But how had they all been lined up and who had shot them from where? If the alarm was working like the police said it was, the shot had to have come from inside the apartment, and from someone with regular access to it.

“Did they have any maids or other staff? A babysitter?” I asked. “Anyone else who might have had regular access to the house?”

“Just a nanny, for Sunday afternoons,” one of the duller officers replied. At least they had the information.

Lestrade walked in, talking on his phone. He didn’t look pleased. As someone finally going to say I wasn’t supposed to be here? Probably not. They all knew they needed me.

“That was the legal team,” he said. “Checking out the paperwork, like routine. Apparently, they had some paperwork taken care of ages ago. And in there, they said that if anything should happen to both parents,…well, I think they’re mad, but that _you_ are supposed to take care of the baby until the investigation is over.”

“What?” John asked, quite indignant.

“I know. Just as surprised as you,” Lestrade replied. “Someone wanting Sherlock to take care of their baby. But that’s what the paperwork says, so that’s what we have to do.”

This was…unexpected. “Well, I’ve seen everything I need,” I said. Just need a few hours to mull it all over. I’ve got three theories, one stands out as most likely. Might go to the lab for a little while. Might play the violin. I’ll phone you in the morning, Lestrade.” And with that, I swept out of the room, to the room where Donovan was holding the baby, and, Lestrade explaining the odd situation I found myself in, took the baby back to 221B.


	2. An Awkward Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at 221B, Sherlock is trying to think and take care of the baby at the same time...

The taxi ride was…awkward. Walking away from a crime scene with a baby in one’s arms is odd enough. This was going to be tedious. “John, do you know anything about babies?” I asked as the little thing started to cry painfully discordant tones. I really was going to need it to shut up if I was going to figure out how and why his parents and older sibling had been killed. Money was most likely involved, it almost always is when you’re as rich as his family is. We finally made it back to 221B after what seemed like an eternity with the baby’s screams and its weight growing in my arms

“Oh what have you done this time?” Mrs. Hudson called after us when we entered, obviously noticing the screaming emanating from the baby’s diaphragm.

“Baby left at the scene of the crime, parents were crazy enough to request that Sherlock of all people look after the baby while the investigation was ongoing,” John summarized for her.

“Mrs. Hudson, please tell me you know something about getting this thing to shut up,” I pleaded. “I need to think.”

Lestrade sent Donovan over with some of the baby’s things. A car seat/carrier that would have been nice to have in the taxi. A bottle. A few little teething toys. Mrs. Hudson, ever incessant about not being a housekeeper, was a saint and went down to the shop to get some food for it. Donovan put the pacifier in the thing’s mouth, and it shut up for a few minutes, but it just would not stop banging its fists on the carrier we put it in. John was in the works of setting up a “safe area” for it. Somewhere without all my things, though I didn’t see what was so dangerous about them. And for some reason, he insisted on it being in my room.

I had pulled out my violin by the time Mrs. Hudson had returned. Some songs were supposed to make babies fall asleep. Perhaps I’d be able to scrape something together, stop the banging, and then I’d be able to think properly.

“Oh, Sherlock, that was lovely,” she complimented me, “but we don’t want the baby going to sleep yet. He’s probably hungry. You probably are too.” She pulled out some jars of a weird paste with bright colored labels, and a package of biscuits. “I’ll go make you some tea. You start to feed the baby. There should be a small spoon in the bag somewhere.”

It was there. The jar was easy to open, and the baby gulped down the repulsive-smelling paste happily, even giggling. I excused its lack of reason, its brain was still developing, and, according to the packaging, this would help it to develop.

The baby actually ate everything in the one small jar, and its eyes were now struggling to stay open. Finally, I’d get some peace.

“You’ve got to make sure it all goes down now,” Mrs. Hudson told me. “Don’t want him spiting it all back up, or worse choking on it.”

Reluctantly, I picked the baby up and held it, shaking it and occasionally patting it. It seemed to enjoy the affection it believed it was receiving, and thankfully, I was able to think while doing so. I was also intensely grateful that Lestrade and his men weren’t here. I’m sure they would have snapped dozens of pictures by now, probably with the intent of using them in some bizarre joke later down the line, which they’d never be able to play for fear I’d stop helping them. I probably would, for a day or two, to get a point across, but, I have come to realize that I depend on them getting cases almost as much as they rely on having me to solve them.

The baby fell asleep in my arms. Mrs. Hudson was smiling a sappy grin. It was useless to try and tell her I was just doing it all to keep the baby alive. I put it back in its carrier and it stayed sleeping soundly. I returned to my violin, resuming some of the old lullabies I had been forced to learn during my childhood, for a good measure to make sure the baby was asleep before I resumed my usual compositions, which were generally quite effective in clearing my brain of unnecessary information.

The rest of the evening was quiet and perfect for brainwork. John was out on a date. The baby kept sleeping. Mrs. Hudson was watching whatever she watched on telly. And I was left to myself to mull over this case. One detail kept coming back to me, and it shouldn’t have even been relevant. The fact that the parents had requested that the baby be left in my care. This meant that either they knew of a threat against them, or this was a suicide, premeditated and orchestrated by the parents, perhaps with a maid or nanny as an accomplice. A threat seemed more likely of the two.

The actual murder was pretty obvious. The parents knew something of it, coerced the daughter to sit with them. Autopsy will tell if she was drugged or if she was just extremely obedient. Another accomplice or whoever was making the treat then shot them through the door. Accomplice or employee of whoever threatened them, and obviously someone with regular access to the flat.

Satisfied with my answers, not in any mood to wait for the morning checking over my mind palace, and having exhausted what I could do with my compositions, I retired to my room, bringing the baby with me. John had spared no expense in making sure it would be safe. All my things were hidden in the wrong drawers or on high shelves that I was impressed he was able to reach.

We obviously didn’t have any baby things around the flat, so John had scraped together a bed made of a cardboard box and many of Mrs. Hudson’s old blankets and quilts. I looked at it. It was quite scant. We’d have to see about obtaining some of its things from its parents’ flat.

“Which would you prefer?” I asked the baby, a silly thing to do in and of itself considering it was unable to talk, and it was already asleep. Rather than try and move it from the carrier, which would most likely result in a fit of crying, I left it there, just placing one of the smaller blankets over it to make sure it didn’t freeze overnight.

I lay in bed for a while, the question of why the parents had left the baby in my care rather than that of a relative or close family friend still nagging at me. They didn’t know me. I’d remember them.  I contemplated getting my laptop, but my body’s need of sleep took over. I was going to have to report to Lestrade anyways, concerning the actual death.


	3. An Early Morning

I awoke to screaming. Drowsily, I rolled over to look at the clock. 5 AM. A bit earlier than usual for me. The baby was in its carrier, wailing obnoxiously, and banging its little fists. What could it possibly want at this hour?

John came in, looking very sleepy. He was out late last night. Must have come back past midnight.

“Good time on your date?” I asked him.

“What on Earth does he need at this hour?” John asked me, completely ignoring my question. It was pretty obvious that he had enjoyed himself though. He was home late, but not sulking about, so, probably a late performance at the theater, followed by dinner at his girlfriend’s flat. They did go see a lot of shows.

It was hard to admit, but I had no clue. “Food is most likely,” I decided. “Babies are supposed to need food regularly.” This could be a difficult few days, if I had to remember to stop and feed it regularly. Adults need food much less regularly. John took the baby while I went to find where Mrs. Hudson had left the bag of things she had bought for it.

“Do you think it wants some of the jarred food or some of the other stuff called ‘formula?’” I asked John, who was trying to rock the baby and keep the pacifier in its mouth.

“I don’t really care,” John replied. The baby was slightly quieter, but still not the silent form I had tolerated. If it kept up its interruptions through the day, it would be near impossible to think clearly. Unsure of which to bring, I brought both.

The jarred food had worked last night. I tried to feed it that again, to no avail. It turned its head away and continued to scream. The other stuff then. I looked at it. Directions. “1. Fill bottle with regular milk. 2. Based on the chart below, add the appropriate amount of powder. 3. Shake well.”

I trudged back to the kitchen. Milk. We never seemed to have any. But, there, next to the head, was a 2-litre of the white liquid. Back in the bag there was a 500mL bottle with the special end for the baby to suck on. I filled the bottle, added the corresponding amount of the powder, shook it, and returned to John and the baby. It was reaching towards the bottle eagerly. So that must be what it wants. The baby happily took the bottle and started to suck down the liquid contained within. The crying ceased, and it was back to sleep. John held it, bouncing it and patting its back. The way he was comfortable with it but still awkward about it suggested that he had had a family member with a baby some time ago, perhaps during his teenage years.

Trusting John, I picked up my violin. No point in going back to sleep. I’d be good for another few days now. A new tune had come to my head, no doubt in part from my recent lullaby-playing for the baby, so I hastily began refining it. Soon enough, John was asleep as well in one of the armchairs, leaving the baby in my own chair, trusting that I would be a few hours with my violin.

As I composed, my usual questions came to my head. This case. There was something different about it. The actual deed of killing the rest of the family was simple enough to figure out. But the baby… the one detail that made this case infinitely more interesting. Who could be after the family? Why would the family leave the baby in my care? Most likely they thought him safest with me, which led to reason that there was a bigger threat than family problems. But what could be so dangerous that I would be a safer guardian? Terrorist groups came to mind. Lestrade hadn’t given me any background on the family. They were rich, and lived in a rich neighborhood. Oh, if only time would go by faster so I could get more facts from Lestrade…  At a dead end until I could obtain more of the facts, composition became my primary occupation.

This new tune, inspired by the lullabies I had been playing, was proving to be a challenge, but welcome in the face of the fact that I had to wait a few hours. The original melody, while enchanting and pleasing, was proving hard to extend. Whenever I heard it in my head, it was a simple reputation of a few measures. While on a piano or for a string quartet it could work, when harmonized, such a melody is harder to work with for a solo violin. Harmonies are limited, and variation is what keeps the piece most interesting.

A buzzing came from my phone. Lestrade. Brilliant. Something. Anything.

“Get over to the Yard at once,” was all the text read. Good enough for me. “Count on it,” I replied.

“John!” I shouted, waking him up. “Lestrade has asked me over to Scotland Yard. Do you think you can take care of the baby?” Another buzzing came from my phone. “Bring the baby,” Lestrade had texted me. “Actually, it’s coming with me.” John started to protest, but quickly realized that we weren’t going to a crime scene, we were going to one of the safest office buildings in the country.

“I’ll be by eventually,” he told me, still quite sleepy, before falling back into sleep. Another hour, and then he’d be on his way to meet me, but I couldn’t wait until then. I put the baby in its carrier, trying to keep it from waking up, and grabbed the pacifier in case it decided to wake up. I wasn’t going to have a scene at Scotland Yard. If it needed food later, John could bring it. Actually, it will need food later. I left John a note. “Bring food for baby if I don’t text you saying I’m coming back.”

And with that, I emerged from our flat, trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson, and hailed a taxi, amazed there was one at this early hour of the morning. Taxi rides are generally uneventful, unless I get a new case while otherwise en route to a day of research at St. Bart’s.


	4. Suspect, Motive, and Accomplice

The sun was up but it was still not exactly bright when I arrived at Scotland Yard. Lestrade was waiting just inside, since security was still on overnight settings and all entrants must enter either from the employee entrance or this one, which has a state of the art security system and some not-so state-of-the-art guards.

“Any luck on finding more about the family?” I immediately asked Lestrade.

“I was hoping you had found something,” he informed me.

“Without access to police databases and while I’m trying to care for this thing?” I asked him. “No, nothing specific about the parents, at least not yet. They were rich, that was obvious from their neighborhood.”

“Let’s head up to the office where I can write this down,” Lestrade suggested.

“Fine.” We took the silent elevator ride up to the 7th floor where he and the others had their desks. It was so peacefully quiet.

“Get any test results back?” I asked him on the way up.

“None, the samples got into the lab too late and the techs haven’t come in yet. It’ll be a few hours. It’s a top priority case though.”

“So, you wanted me to bring the baby,” I said, inviting Lestrade to explain.

“Yeah,” he said. “Security. Your flat isn’t exactly known for being the most secure place in the world.”

“It would have been perfectly safe there,” I scoffed, though memories of the various altercations that had occurred at various times at 221B flashed through my head. “I mean, Mrs. Hudson would have been there at the least, and probably either John or I too.”

“Dear God, Sherlock,” Lestrade said. The elevator door opened. We stepped out. When we got to his desk, he handed me a file.

“This is everything we were able to get last night. There should be another file arriving sometime early this morning- the night guys were put on the job.”

I placed the baby on someone’s desk and set to work poring over the file. It would have been nice to have the wall to pin things onto, but as it was Lestrade gave me a desk to spread out over. They really ought to just put an honorary placard on there with my name, I’m in here so often helping on cases.

The parents were lawyers. They could have made some enemies in their time. Enemies with money. So, whoever wanted them dead most likely hired someone to carry out the murders. The older sibling, the maid, another close family member. Someone with access to the apartment. They had to have had a key, and have been a regular visitor to the apartment, since the security never was set off and none of the doors were forced.

I needed a list of the cases the parents had worked. Anyone they had successfully prosecuted who might want revenge. Particularly high-profile cases. Legal records are easy enough to come by when working with the police though. Lestrade was off getting coffee, so I borrowed his computer. I managed to find one case fitting the profile. Some Russian oil tycoon was on trial for tax evasion, the parents were the prosecuting lawyers, the tycoon was thrown into jail and, the icing in the cake, released last month. But surely he would have wanted to wipe the whole family out?

“Seeing as you’re at my computer I hope you found something good,” Lestrade said when he returned, coffee in hand, crumbs falling out of his mouth.

“Suspect and motive,” I said.

“Not bad,” he swallowed, the last of the donut that had been in his mouth sliding down his esophagus.

“Russian oil tycoon, put on trial for refusing to pay taxes, parents were the prosecuting lawyers, they won, he’s thrown into jail, was released last month.”

Lestrade was looking at some of the other papers. “You know, the maid, she was only hired within the last month.”

Suspect, motive, a paid accomplice, hired to carry out the deed. We just needed to know how, and why they forgot the baby.

My phone buzzed. Constant vibration, phone call. Either John, Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft. I took the phone out of my pocket to see who it was. John. I picked it up.

“Er, Sherlock,” he said, “you might want to come down here. I just got up and was going to make a cuppa when I found the sitting room and kitchen torn to shreds.”

“On my way,” I said. I turned to Lestrade. “Sorry, got to run, we’ve had a break-in at Baker Street.”

“Oh, did you?” Lestrade asked, feeling smug in knowing that he was right- Baker Street wasn’t the safest place in the world. “Do you want me to send some of the boys down?”

“I’ll call if we need anything,” I assured him, walking back towards the elevator.

“Sherlock!” he called. “Aren’t you going to take the baby with you?”

“What? The baby?” I asked. “No, it’s much safer here. Isn’t it obvious? They were searching the flat for it, it’s of some value.”

“And could you stop calling the baby ‘it?’” Lestrade asked. “According to the paperwork, her name is Anna.” I stopped and thought for a moment. They had already searched Baker Street. There are chances they had surveillance. Scotland Yard may be a safe place, but not enough if I could outsmart their so-called detectives. I came back to grab Anna. Key to the case or not, I had been entrusted with her care, and despite my lack of knowledge or care, I still had a duty to perform.

“Oh, and Lestrade,” I called back as I was leaving, “get me the surveillance tapes from all the entrances and surrounding houses. I’ll be back after finishing damage control.”


	5. A Dangerous Burglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock arrives back at 221B to investigate the early-morning break-in.

Back at Baker Street, I began a methodical inspection of the mess. There were muddy boot prints coming up the stairs and plodding around the consultation room, a man, with his wide foot in a shoe a few sizes too small. There was also a woman, who had gone into the kitchen, as some of the boot prints were smudged by much smaller, lighter feet. The bedrooms had been left alone.

The consultation room was, as John had described, in shreds, and the kitchen had obviously been inspected by someone who was not concerned about leaving a mess. Things in the consultation room were tossed to the right of their proper places, while things in the kitchen were to their left. There were two different people involved in our break-in. They were probably looking for something relating to a case, probably found it highly unlikely that we’d take work to our respective bedrooms. Since they broke into 221B, it's in relation to a case with money involved. I haven’t had a large case lately, so it’s probably in conjunction with this current one. There wasn't much to look for, to see if it was missing, since I had no files on the case here, so I bent down to scrape up a sample of the mud when I heard it. It was barely audible, but there was no mistaking it.

I quickly grabbed Anna and stepped outside to the stairs, ducking and protecting her body with mine. In that time, our intruder finished loading and pulled the trigger, firing exactly where I had been standing moments before. As soon as the shot was fired, I took off down the stairs and pulled out my phone.

“Lestrade, we’re going to need some of your least irritating officers, our burglar was still at 221B,” I quickly said. As soon as I was assured they were on their way, I hung up. I ran across the street, around the corner, and jumped into a taxi to Scotland Yard. As I turned the corner, I just caught a glimpse of our shooter. Tall, Siberian, with a long black beard. Now safely in the taxi, I called John. “Are you still in the flat?” I asked.

“Yeah, what was that?” he asked me.

“Our burglar,” I replied.

“Oh.”

“I’m in a taxi to Scotland Yard, Lestrade is sending out his least irritating officers, have your gun ready, and if you see a tall, black-bearded Siberian man, do not hesitate to shoot him. Don’t kill him, just make sure he’s not going anywhere or shooting anyone.”

“Got it.”

“And if you can, get a sample of the boot prints from the stairs and see if any of the kitchen equipment has fresh fingerprints on it. Especially the lab equipment. I’ve been wearing gloves when handling it these last few weeks, since I’ve been working with some particularly potent compounds.”

“Okay.”

My phone buzzed again. “Sherlock, I thought I was meeting you here,” Lestrade said, his tone slightly annoyed.

“There’s a tall Siberian man with a black beard trying to kill me and Anna,” I replied. “I believe you said that 221B isn’t a particularly safe place, so I’m going back to Scotland Yard to look over those tapes.”

“I never said I had them.”

“Your tone when you first answered my call told me you were just about to call me. The only things you would need to call me about are the tapes or the lab reports, and if the technicians only started looking at the evidence when they arrived this morning, probably about 45 minutes ago, then they obviously won’t have much to tell us. Therefore, you got the tapes.”

“Oh all right,” Lestrade admitted. “They’re on a flash drive on my desk. The password is…”

I cut him off. “I already know your password.”

“What?!” he yelled at me.

“You act like you’re surprised.”

“Not in the least. Just don’t go doing things you shouldn’t.” I vaguely heard him mumble about needing to change his password when he got back.


End file.
